We plot delicate escapes from those
spider limbs articulated with clicking, precise motion,who seek to ensnarl us
in their minacious grasps.
Climbing gossamer strands extended by the like-minded moon
(who also operates with borrowed light),
we strive to become a similar celestial body,
forever suspended in the swallowing
blackness
of that uninterrupted space.

Yet we never reach the lustery sphere,
as merciless dewdrops gather on our
secret vehicle, and our frenzied ascent
becomes all too visible
to those creeping seekers.
Our nighttime flutters are too wild, too maladroit-
like an Icarus of the moths,
we are ensnared by our humanity;
our wings disintegrate in the
percolating, frigid waters.

And this repeats,
night after night. Us,
forever clambering towards the soft
opalescence promised by height,
and forever returned to our origins
by those inescapable foes.